The Rule of Three
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: John's the writer, of course. Sherlock just helps. **** a Three Flat Problem (one 221A, one 221B, one 221C) crammed full of A, B and C prompt words from friends in the antidiogenes chat room. Title inspired by those stupid writing-advice websites that offer some small number (usually 3!) ridiculously simple writing principles as if that's all it takes.


**Rule #1: Make it Interesting**

"Sherlock!"

John usually responded to the absurd requests shouted up the stairs, rather than issuing them, but Sherlock was in the shower and John was in the grip of a wayward sentence that could not be trusted to be left alone.

"Sherlock?"

"I did hear you the first time," said the aforementioned flatmate as he padded down the stairs, toweling off his hair.

"Right." John didn't dare take his eyes off the screen. "I think I remember something about 'if inconvenient, come anyway.'"

Sherlock ignored this and came to lean over John's shoulder. "What are you writing?"

"I need a synoym for 'boring'," John said.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I presume you're not describing me."

"No, I'm _quoting_ you. Or rather," he put in hastily, forestalling the lecture even if he was too late for the eyeroll, "I'm _representing_ what you said to Dimmock."

Sherlock scoffed. "Banal," he said dismissively.

John huffed in frustration. "Sherlock, for once could you— oh."

Sherlock's face remained calm, but John could smell the smugness. "You're improving considerably, John," he said airily.

"It's my bloody blog," John shot back. "I don't need your accolades."

Turning away, Sherlock replied, "I meant that on the vast continuum of all possibilities, your writing is inching steadily, if slowly, toward 'almost bearable'."

John grunted. "Yeah, I also don't need your absolution."

 **Rule #2: Make it Relatable**

John decided to take advantage of Sherlock's elaborate sartorial ministrations and ducked into the kitchen to fix himself some tea.

By the time Sherlock emerged from his bedroom fifteen minutes later, buttoning the cuff of his aubergine shirt, John's progress measured three new paragraphs and two hobnobs. Sherlock returned to peer over his shoulder like an exquisitely kitted out vulture.

Sherlock snorted and stabbed a finger at the screen. "John, that's ridiculous. Nobody wants to hear about the dinner, it wasn't pertinent to the case."

"I knew this total wanker in uni," John said, "always going on about the benefits of carrot juice. _He_ would have been eating a salad like that."

"Was that 'wanker' part of Robertson's house-share?"

"No," John replied, patience fading, "but reading about a cucumber-beet-apple salad reminds me of him. Gives me a feel for what the housemates were like. It's a bit of color, of character."

Sherlock scoffed, again. John struggled for composure. "Just leave it, Sherlock," he ground out.

"Fine," Sherlock sniffed. "But you know, you've got several typos."

John slammed down the lid, perhaps a bit harder than the manufacturer would have recommended. "I'm taking a break," he snapped, pushing up from his chair.

"Yes, that seems best," Sherlock agreed, taking his seat and opening the laptop back up. "And do bring more biscuits."

 **Rule #3: Make it Sincere**

Twenty minutes later, on his third turn round Dorset Square, John discovered that adrenaline and regret made an unpleasant cocktail in his bloodstream. He headed home.

Sherlock had abandoned John's blog and was by the window with his violin, dashing out a lively tune. It made John's nerves jangle. Sherlock turned, his bow stilled.

John squared his shoulders. "I'm. Sorry I, uh. Left. Before."

"You're a man of action," Sherlock replied.

"It's just…" John swallowed. "It's my thing, Sherlock, this blog. It's what I contribute."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not true." John's jaw tightened, but Sherlock continued: "There's your bravery. Your moral certainty."

John didn't know what to say. Sherlock gave a small, impudent smile. "Your gun."

"There is that," John answered, grinning. "I'm rather frightening, you know."

"You're quite intimidating when you're angry," Sherlock agreed. "I suspect you could have imposed order on the imbeciles at that absurd bacchanal last week without it."

John laughed. "Yeah, that crowd? I reckon I could have cowed them with a banana." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. Division of labor. No more correcting my blog, okay? I'll write, you play your, your sonata."

Sherlock inclined his head. "Yes, fine." John settled himself to type, scrolling back up to the beginning.

"Except."

John turned back to his flatmate, who smirked. "It's a chaconne."


End file.
